The Stain on the Wall
by goodpenmanship
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, Watson and Lestrade investigate the mysterious disappearance of a priceless painting and the violent casualties that follow.


A charred empty four by four foot frame rested on the wall of the art gallery. The day before it held "Midnight," an elegant portrait painted by Lars Boor, composed of moody dark hues and worth a fortune. Now there was nothing on the wall but a dark stain, a mysterious blemish on the exhibit.

The London police were baffled by the case. The painting had vanished overnight through locked doors and windows. No sign of forced entry and no guards alerted. The art thief had managed to escape with the sixteen square foot portrait without sounding any alarms or raising suspicions. Sherlock Holmes rubbed his temples to ease a steady headache, not brought on by the perplexity of the case, but by the acrid acidic fumes that his canine-like nose picked up.

"The smell of chemicals in here is overpowering," he muttered to Watson. They had been recruited by Inspector Lestrade to look into the case with a fresh set of eyes. The oddity of it was bewildering.

"Well the exhibit only opened three days ago," said Watson. "It's probably cleaning chemicals and all the paint in one room." Watson sniffed the air, trying to pick up the scent, but he had no luck with his stuffy nose.

"This must have been an inside job," said Lestrade as policemen fanned out around the room. "The gallery manager is the only one with a key to this room and it was locked tight last night. He was the sole person with the opportunity to steal the painting."

Holmes ignored him. He was preoccupied studying the two paintings adjacent to Midnight's empty frame. His encyclopedic mind turned observations into deductions and conclusions. Something was different.

"I didn't invite you here to admire artwork, Holmes," snapped Lestrade. He stood behind him, arms crossed and teeth gritted.

"The colors are off," replied Holmes without turning around. "I've seen this painting before, 'Empty Meadow,' and the green has faded to more of a chartreuse, it's significantly lighter. Same with the painting on the other side, it's faded."

Bram Vos, a Lars Boor artwork enthusiast, stood beside Holmes and pondered over the paintings. He was an expert in his field, and had excitedly taken a train to London when he heard 'Midnight' would be on display. Unfortunately he arrived that morning and didn't have a chance to view it before its mysterious disappearance. After toiling over the strange landscapes for twenty minutes he turned back to the detectives. "Mr. Holmes is correct. I don't know how, but these paintings have been drastically altered."

"This case just keeps getting better," grunted Lestrade. "A painting magically disappears into thin air and other paintings in the room start changing colors. Perfect."

Theories began forming in Sherlock Holmes's mind as synapses snapped information between each other. The gallery manager interrupted his train of thought. He walked in wearing a dark blue suit, the same as the rest of the art gallery staff, and waving an envelope.

"I found it, Lestrade," he said. "I found the note I was telling you about. The warning! I got this two days ago, right after the exhibit opened." He handed over an open envelope, tainted by the slight scent of the salty sea. Inside was a letter.

"'October 5. You cannot stop me. You cannot find me. Your most precious piece of art is already gone. Perhaps we can arrange a trade if you want it back, but it will cost you.'" Lestrade read the letter aloud. "Someone's mocking you, informing you of an oncoming theft, yet they still managed to steal a priceless piece of art."

"I doubled security after I received that threat," said the manager. "The thief is a ghost! He must be able to walk through walls."

Holmes took the letter and envelope from Lestrade and began scanning it for clues. He took a small magnifying glass from his trouser pocket and made steady sweeps over the parchment. A thin smile crept over his face.

"Watson, let's go," he said. "We have important leads to follow." The two slipped out of the art gallery like shadows from light without Lestrade noticing.

The steady hours of the day passed and dusk had arrived. The cold autumn air stung at Lestrade's face as he pushed open the door of 45 Lilt Street. He had received a telegram from Holmes not long ago about an urgent lead in the case.

The house was in total disarray. Lestrade was taken aback upon entry for Holmes and Watson stood over a dead body in the middle of the room, a pool of blood on the floor beneath it. The unfortunate soul had been shot point blank.

"What happened here?!" Lestrade asked in shock. "Who is that?"

Holmes glanced over to him, his expression cold and calculating. "This was Henry Shultz. He was a vital part of the artwork heist, but as you can see, he was betrayed by his partner or partners."

Lestrade raised his hands in the air, a look of confusion painted on his face. "How did you find this guy? What have you been doing all day? How are you so sure he's connected to the case? Explain yourself!"

Holmes sighed and put his hands together. "We shouldn't waste time, but I'll give you a brief recap of the investigation Dr. Watson and I have been conducting. Henry Shultz wrote the threatening letter to the art gallery manager, a fact that I deduced from the envelope and note. Firstly, I realized the letter was written by someone at sea, that was obvious. It was water damaged and the otherwise smooth penmanship was occasionally jerked around, most probably by the rocking of a boat. A quick chemical analysis revealed the envelope was sealed with wax made from spermaceti, oil found in whales, though predominantly in the heads of sperm whales to help them control buoyancy and utilize echolocation."

"Get on with it, Holmes," grunted Lestrade. "I thought you said this would be brief. I don't need a lesson on marine biology as well."

"As I was saying," Holmes continued, "spermaceti is taken from whales, and while it is somewhat rare to see spermaceti wax on candles or seals, a whaler would have easy access to the substance."

"So the guy that wrote the letter is a whaler," admitted Lestrade. "But how'd you find this guy, Henry Shultz, in particular?"

"I had the good fortune of noticing several light scratches on the envelope, invisible to the untrained eye," replied Holmes. "He had been previously writing on a piece of paper on top of the letter and the marks lightly imprinted themselves on the envelope. With my magnifying glass I made out the numbers '51.28' and '2.87.' These of course are latitude and longitude coordinations, planting the author of the threatening letter directly off the coast of Belgium, near a popular whaling port city called Adelbert's Haven, around October 5.

"Watson and I contacted the harbormaster in the late morning and I cross referenced our clues with his ledger. The Zoet Dame, a whaling ship, makes runs between London and Belgium and fits the timeframe of our letter. We tracked down the captain of the Zoet Dame and asked for the navigator of his ship, Henry Shultz. After checking one of his journals and comparing it with the handwriting of the threatening letter I was sure he was our man. The captain gave us his address, described his appearance and here we are. But someone got to him first."

Lestrade looked back at the body. Shultz was motionless on the floor, eyes glazed over. There was a mess of blonde hair on his head. He had bandages on his hands over small burns on his fingers. A look of pain was etched onto his face, his pearly teeth showing, along with two thin marks under his eyes. Holmes crouched down and held the dead man's grimy hand. He sniffed under the fingernails and looked closer at the teeth.

"So who killed him?" asked Lestrade. "Who's his partner? Our murdering art thief."

Holmes ignored him. "Do you know much about tobacco, Lestrade?"

Lestrade scratched his chin. "I've heard it's bad for you, but I guarantee it's not what killed his man."

Holmes picked up the butt of a cigarette. He wafted it under his nose and meditated for a moment. "This is thuoc lao," he said. "It's a rare Vietnamese strand of tobacco. Very strong too."

"So Shultz had exotic taste in tobacco, big deal."

"Shultz didn't smoke," said Holmes. "He has no nicotine stains on his fingers, no damage to his teeth, and not an ashtray in sight. This cigarette came from his killer." He walked across the room and picked up an old weathered top hat. "And so did this hat."

Watson and Lestrade looked intrigued. "How do you figure?" Lestrade asked.

"The hat is far too large for Shultz's head and it's filled with short brown hairs, not blonde. Plus the hat has a stain from thuoc lao tobacco smoke on the brim along with scratches from glasses, neither of which Shultz has. The murderer left behind his hat and dropped his cigarette in haste. This is an old hat, but it's also very good quality." Holmes flipped open a small tag inside the hat. "Made by the Salmon Brothers. Perhaps they can shed some light on its owner."

Night had fallen across London. Dim streetlights illuminated the narrow roads as Sherlock Holmes, Watson and Lestrade made their way to Brick Street. The Salmon Brothers had been very useful, carefully documenting all of their customers. The owner of the tobacco stained hat was Edgar Trap, a struggling London artist. Lestrade heavily rapped on 32 Brick Street three times. No response. Lestrade pushed the door open and the three investigators wandered inside the small dark house. A vile stench hit their noses as they walked farther in.

"Poetic justice," muttered Lestrade. The three looked down at Trap's dead body, strewn on the floor and drenched in blood.

He was viciously stabbed to death. Trap had short brown hair and wore glasses, just as Holmes had predicted after looking at his hat. The butt of a thuoc lao cigarette rested on the floor. Two art thieves were dead, but how many were left?

"So who killed Trap?" questioned Lestrade. "And where's that painting? Midnight?"

"The art thieves have been killing each other off out of greed," said Holmes. He looked at Trap's corpse and rummaged through the pockets. "Nothing's stolen off his body. This wasn't a random break-in turned murder."

"Holmes," said Watson as he returned from an adjacent room. "Come see this!"

All three of the men gathered in Trap's painting studio. There were portraits everywhere, all painted by Trap, each one more beautiful than the last. There were several models, but one appeared very often. A young blond woman with long flowing hair and a brilliant smile. Her big chestnut eyes looked deep into the hearts of her onlookers. One recent painting was titled "Home on the River," and was a detailed illustration of the woman looking out across the Thames from a warm brick house. Glowing embers warmed her radiant skin as she looked past shops and up at the dazzling night sky. Trap's painting ability was undeniable.

Watson pointed deeper into the studio, to a dark corner that smelled acidic and burnt. Holmes approached a pile of paintings burned by acids and ripped apart. He scratched his chin and examined the destroyed art.

"This must be what happened to Midnight," remarked Watson. "The stain on the wall and chemical smell were produced by an acid that burned the painting."

Holmes studied the burnt canvases for a moment more. "I do believe you're right, Watson."

"So they didn't steal the painting, but destroyed it instead? Why?! And when did Trap and Shultz have time to splash acid on the painting?" asked Lestrade. "There's no way they could get away with that. The gallery manager doubled security after all."

"This mystery's far from over, Lestrade," said Holmes. "We need to search for clues. We need to find any other members of this criminal posse." Holmes went to work going through paintings and notebooks, though he was particularly interested in a dark blue outfit resting in the corner of Trap's house. His eidetic memory stored and filtered every piece of information, snapping the clues together like the jigsaw pieces of a mental puzzle.

The morning sun rose over London's horizon, warming the smoggy city and filling the dark streets with sweet light. The woman with blond flowing hair and chestnut eyes stared out her window across the Thames, delicately sketching every detail of every wave on a large canvas. This would be her masterpiece. Trap had always specialized in portraits, but she loved the allure of a landscape.

Three knocks rapped against her door. She rose to her feet and wandered across the cluttered house, pencil in hand. She turned the knob and looked in shock at the three men standing on her step. Holmes entered first, a grin on his face.

"What's this about?" asked the woman warily.

"Do you know an artist named Edgar Trap?" asked Lestrade as he followed Holmes into the house. The floorboards creaked under his steps.

"Never heard of him," she lied.

"Untrue," stated Holmes as he looked around the messy house. "You're his favorite model, and from the looks of it, you're also a member of his gang of thieves. Where's Midnight?"

"The painting? I have no idea what you're talking about. I'd like you men to leave now."

Holmes ran his hand across the only empty table in the room. Small burns tainted its smooth oak finish. He felt around the floorboards and sniffed the air. Lestrade and Watson looked at each other in confusion, but the only look on the woman's face was disbelief.

"Ah ha!" laughed Holmes. He pulled up a loose floorboard and revealed a hidden storage space full of vials, beakers and notes. "When I didn't find any acids at Shultz's or Trap's houses I knew there had to be another accomplice holding onto the chemical supplies. Your house reeks of the same acids used to destroy Trap's paintings and the only uncluttered table is riddled with chemical burns, your lab table for experimentation as it seems. The floorboards are looser where you've been constantly pulling them up to retrieve and store chemicals."

The woman wandered across the room and took a seat in a large red chair. She was becoming pale and unsteady. "How did you find me?"

Holmes stepped forward in pride. "Trap painted you quite a bit," he began. "One painting in particular, 'Home by the River,' caught my eye. Thanks to Trap's uncanny detail I deduced that it was painted in the Amesbury district of London due to the style of houses and stores in the background. The position of the moon and stars in the painting help narrow down the location as well. Once again I must thank Trap's excruciating detail, because while portraits are undeniably an art and not a science, Trap's portraits are nearly as accurate as photographs. We searched for a house in the Amesbury district directly on the Thames with a chimney that matched the fireplace in the portrait. Other factors, such as the size of the room and style of the house, helped bring our search to your door. This is where Trap painted 'Home by the River.'"

"Save us all the time," grumbled Lestrade. "Where's Midnight?"

"We know you used acids formulated by Henry Shultz, the group chemist, to react with oil paints," said Holmes. "His fingers were covered in chemical burns and the strong smell of acids and his face had marks on it from the constant use of safety goggles. With his help it appeared as if Midnight magically vanished. Not only did the painting dissolve, but stray acid fumes also altered the colors of adjacent works of art. Now where's the original copy that you stole?"

The woman smirked. "We destroyed Midnight, just like you said. We didn't steal it."

"Again, untrue," commented Holmes. "At first I thought you simply destroyed Midnight for reasons unknown, but I've come to believe that you made a forgery and replaced it before destroying the copy. After seeing Trap's remarkable artistic ability in painting portraits, much like Midnight, I realized that he could make a copy indistinguishable from Midnight to the common man. He had been practicing many portraits very similar to Midnight at his house. Shultz installed time-release acids into the forgery and in the confusion of the new exhibit opening Trap snuck in and switched the paintings. I found a dark blue outfit in his house, identical to the one worn by the art gallery manager, which he undoubtedly used as a disguise."

Lestrade chuckled. "So you switched the portraits and let Trap's forgery sit on the wall of the gallery for three days before the acids took effect. That's gutsy. It made the robbery look impossible."

"Exactly," said Holmes. "And you couldn't leave it any longer or art expert, Bram Vos, would get a chance to see it and realize it was a fake. He's one of the few people that has the knowledge and experience to tell the difference. I'm sure the original Midnight is hidden in here somewhere, and it would be all yours seeing as your partners are both recently deceased."

"Great work, detectives," spat the woman. "Really great. You've ruined everything!"

Before Holmes could speak again the woman reached back and flung a vial of acid at his head. He ducked under the incoming acidic assault, his reflexes as sharp as ever. Lestrade and Watson sprang into action, charging at the woman. Watson grabbed her by one arm as Lestrade slapped a pair of handcuffs on the other.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Edgar Trap and the theft of Lars Boor's Midnight," growled Lestrade. "For your sake, you'd better hope there's arts and crafts in prison."

Holmes looked around the room for a minute before pulling a tarp off of a four by four painting in the corner. Just as he suspected, the original Midnight rested there, completely unharmed. A masterpiece worth killing for.


End file.
